


Pokémon Colosseum (Novelized)

by Naika



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pokemon Colosseum
Genre: Dark Past, Gen, He's also hotter, Mild Language, Orre, Wes is cooler than you, general badassery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-16 18:32:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5836270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naika/pseuds/Naika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If you were gonna make it out here, there were two choices: have some kind of cheap fortune or the penchant for Pokémon battling.  Thankfully for a certain young man, he had plenty of the latter option."<br/>The story of Wes's journey through Orre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everyone Is Equal in the Desert

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully this story will help compensate for the countless unfinished Colo fics out there (sad times).
> 
> Who else loves Wes as much as I do?

It was dark, for a change. Familiar yet not, the expanse of a tiny rooftop was a man’s best acquaintance, whether by means of shelter for the poor sap who made the old shoebox his home or the thug who made his living off saps like him. But they were all equal—all living under the same relentless sun, all surviving off nothing but the desert business. Either you had the connections to work it or the connections to pay up. And if you had none, you’d either die on the street or worm your way onto somebody’s blacklist. Arceus knows you’d better hope the police caught you before whoever you managed to piss off did. If you were gonna make it out here, there were two choices: have some kind of cheap fortune or the penchant for Pokémon battling. Thankfully for a certain young man, he had plenty of the latter option.

“Scott, was it? Not from around here, are ya? Whatever, cash is universal. I brought what you asked for.”

“Listen, I’ve only got a hundred Pokédollars. That’s all.” A plump fellow stood in the shadow of the opening to the patched up shack. A fitting blue shirt clung to his rounded figure, a pair of clean, undamaged shorts embracing the tops of his knees. A snowy complexion still lightly dusted the face which presented its best attempt at a scowl.

“Three hundred Poké. That’s the price you agreed to when you flashed that shiny little screen at me.” The man was young, with a head of sandy blonde hair and a pair of steely gold eyes. A dark blue trench coat covered his tall, slender body like an aura. Flanking him like bodyguards were two Pokémon: an Espeon and an Umbreon. His voice was cold, much like the rest of the folks in this godforsaken region.

Orre: the backstreets of the world. That’s what they called it back in Hoenn and it proved nothing short of the rumors. Scott knew now that he should’ve turned back the second he’d arrived, if the welcoming sign had been any indication: faded with neglect and the passage of time, the region’s name in ‘Welcome to Orre’ crossed out and replaced by ‘Hell’ in the world’s finest spray paint.

The sand was a familiar thing. Slateport’s lovely beaches were covered with it, surrounded by vast oceans teeming with water Pokémon. The thought of the grains between his toes should have brought Scott memories of the smells of salt and food from passing venders. But all it gave him now was the reminder of his failed idea of taking this awful place by storm. Surely it wouldn’t be difficult to make a business out here. What Orre vagabond wouldn’t want a little taste of the good life? That’s what got him into this mess.

“You don’t understand. I’m going through a rough patch right now. My business…”

“Failed, I know.”

The plump man was taken aback.

“By the looks of it, you’re wondering how I guessed it, aren’t you? Want to know a secret? You’re not the first. Not by a long shot you aren’t. Lots of innocent fools like you come here thinking that if you dangle a little money in front of everybody’s faces, they’ll fall under some sort of spell and you can bleed all the punks dry. But this place doesn’t take bate, it eats you alive. It’s called survival and a couple god awful cops. Get used to it or get killed by it. Now, about the money.”

“I told you I don’t have it.” The outsider was growing concerned. This guy couldn’t have been more than eighteen; maybe twenty at most. When Scott was the punk’s age, he lived comfortably with his parents and his younger sister, selling different drinks and rare snacks on the bustling streets of Slateport, a roof over his head and food and clothes easy to come by.

This boy, staring him into borderline terror, appeared permanently tanned from the harsh Orre sky. He looked unbelievably experienced at this sort of thing, and a smirk seemed to tug endlessly at the edges of his expressionless mouth. He must’ve thought Scott quite comical, the way he tried to act savvy in order to save his own hide from the wolf pack of citizens in this region. It was clear by his well-fed exterior and unburned skin that Scott wasn’t from around these parts, and that made him an easy target.

“Here’s a tip.” In one long stride, the boy had Scott by his shirt collar. His breath was hot on his face and smelled of something foul. “Don’t lead a criminal to your home without pay. If you’re gonna dupe someone, do it right or don’t do it at all.” Then he smiled, eyes narrowing slyly. “Lucky for you, I’m not such a bad guy. I happen to know a way out of this mess.”

Scott nodded, unable to form a proper sentence when presented so directly with the punk’s face. Despite the obvious difference in age, there was something innately intimidating about him. Something predatory.

“Possessions are worth something, yeah? How’s about that P*DA of yours.”

“Oh, um, you want that?”

“Yeah,” the young man confirmed. “Gimme that and I’ll let ya off the hook.”

Shock emanating from his face, all the foreigner could do was reach forward a shaky palm which compliantly presented the device. The silvery blond snatched it up with the practiced hand of a thief before reaching into his own deep coat pocket. He pulled out a crinkled piece of paper which he unfolded and handed to Scott.

“There’s a guy who goes by the name of Cail. You’ll find him somewhere in Pyrite Town, probably by the southern gate. Give him the name ‘Wes’ and he’ll tell you what you need to know.”

“How am I supposed to get to this Pyrite place?”

“Walk?” The shady man shrugged. “Hotwire a bike if you can find one? The route’s mapped out right there on that paper you’re holding. Figure it out.” He turned, his Pokémon responding instantly to the movement. They trotted alongside him toward the motorbike that lay fifteen or so feet away.

And just like that, he was off, a silhouette speeding away into the desert with a distinct sense of purpose. There was no doubt he knew exactly where he was going, and he’d probably forget Scott’s face by morning. Scott, on the other hand, would likely remember that face for the rest of his life.

Scott,

Thanks for letting me know about this number. I can’t believe your Poké Nav fell off the ship. How terrible! In any case, I hope all is well in Slums Ville. I’m sure you’ll find some way to turn it into a gold mine. We all believe in you and your unbreakable spirit. Your father and I are so proud of you and that ambitious heart of yours. Please write back soon!

Mom

Wes scoffed down at the email and its pronouncement of ‘new’ in bold lettering. He could imagine some sweet old naïve hag sitting at her fancy Poké Nav or whatever it was, typing away with the dumbest, most prideful look on her wrinkled face. What a brilliant son she’d raised. What an educated, worldly man of thirty-something he’d turned out to be.

Uninterested in whatever else was on the thing, the rogue went ahead and wiped everything from its memory, filling in the blanks with his own info. Perfect. He was in need of a second one.

His partners sat as they always did in the sidecar of the bike, the Umbreon, Hunter, perched on the edge of the seat, watching everything like an owl, and the Espeon, Trapper, kneading the seat thoughtfully with his front paws. As if on some secret cue, they shifted and turned to affectionately nuzzle their trainer. A hand left the wheel for the express purpose of chucking the both of them on their heads. They nipped at him playfully in response, earning an amused chuckle.

“Couple of lowlifes,” Wes remarked. The felines ducked their heads roughly into his side. “Relax boys. We’ll wrestle when we get back to the hideout, alright? I’m driving over here.” The pair pawed at him for a few more seconds before hopping back in their seat and assuming their usual positions.

The rogue adjusted the silver shades that shielded his eyes from the stray projectiles of sand, yet another attraction of the ever hospitable Orre. Though, he really didn’t mind the crummy place all that much. It was a comfortable sort of crummy, like a good friend who got themselves into trouble and accidentally dragged you down with them. To tell the truth, there was nowhere else someone like Wes could feel at home. Take a trip to Kanto; everyone would kick you into the dirt. At least here, everyone was already covered in filth, so it didn’t matter what anyone said or did to you. Save the benevolent and oh so wealthy leaders of the land, all were equal in standing. And if someone looked at you funny for acting shifty, you could knock their teeth in with little chance of repercussion. It was nice.

Just as he was about to make the left turn that would lead him to the edge of Eclo Canyon, his pocket buzzed at him, a clear bell sound ringing out. Wes sighed, placing his new P*DA into his lap in favor of the old one.

An email stated that he was to report to Gateon port immediately for a snag mission. A few muttered curses left his mouth as he typed back a reply, asking if it was necessary, as he was a decent distance from the seaside town. A short reply soon followed, simply stating that it was Gonzap’s orders and that he was one of the best they had.

Always sucking up, even though I’m the one who’s gotta practically kiss the ground that muscle head walks on, he thought to himself. But really, they just didn’t want to lose their best snagger. They knew it and Wes knew it too. They told him he was a natural from the beginning. A good trainer, no doubt, and a really good thief. Hell knew what Gonzap wanted all those Pokémon for, but it hardly mattered at this point. Years of digging around where he shouldn’t have been and all Wes found was a brand spanking new snag machine that put the glove to shame and the name Cipher. Manufacturers of one scummy kind or another he surmised. He fired off a quick email and headed west.

“Sorry boys,” he told his feline companions. “Our wrestling match might have to wait a little longer.”

In another time, in another universe, the seaside town of Gateon Port could’ve possibly been a charming place. Hardly any ships thundered up to the docks because most people with an ounce of common sense wanted nothing to do with the region, there was a legitimate body of water surrounding it, and a lighthouse stretched into the sky to guide anybody who might be passing by.

Wes kicked a cloud of sand over someone’s abandoned cigarette butt. Who was he kidding? That was where anything peaceful about the damned place ended. There was more garbage on the ground than sand, which was, at the very least, fair game for those desperate enough to have to rifle through it. Then there was the Krabby Club, a sleazy little strip club on the northeastern side of town with a couple frequents who called themselves the magicians, for obvious reasons. And of course, there was Snagem’s business, which was what Wes was here for.

Some clueless trainer would walk right off that dock and into the real world, courtesy of the one and only Snag Machine 2.0. The only one of its kind, it had been under development for years before it was loaned out to Team Snagem. Of course, they had to teach him how to use it as soon as it arrived at the hideout. Team Snagem’s number one snagger, Gonzap’s favorite pedigree scum, had to be one of the first to try out the new toy. They’d all be powerful bastards if Wes was on the job. And here he was, crunching this and that under his boots, kicking empty cans this way and that, walking down the desert beach to meet up with two shady men who called him their colleague.

“Wes!” a gruff voice belonging to one such man, Wakin, shouted as he neared. “You’re late! The fun’s already started!”

From this distance, the golden eyed rogue could see that a battle was taking place. Four Pokémon were squaring off, though the two on Snagem’s side seemed particularly violent in a way that was almost unnatural. Were his teammates even giving them commands?

“C’mon Wes,” Biden, the other Snagem goon called, “get over here and finish it, will you? We’ve got your machine all warmed up.”

Wes did as he was told and broke out into a jog, Trapper and Hunter keeping easily in stride. When he took his place behind the Snag Machine, the opposing trainer’s Pokémon looked completely worn out. To one corner of the square lay a nearly if not completely fainted Totodile, and lying next to it…was a scrawny little Eevee, shaking as it struggled to its feet.

Wes’s gaze flicked to the friends he’d raised from Eevee just like that one—his only real companions. He almost felt as if he were betraying them somehow. But that wasn’t right. His reasons were purely selfish at heart. Yes, he was truly selfish for experiencing that dull discomfort in his stomach: that twinge of guilt.

The trainer was a boy, twelve years old at most, and he stared at Wes with wide, scared eyes. The snagger couldn’t say he knew the exact fear of the child, but there was a word for it. Weakness, of course. By all standards of the desert region, this kid was weak. Unfit to live here; unfit to be responsible for the lives of two Pokémon out here. He told himself this as he closed his eyes and pressed the button.

He didn’t need to look to know the capture was successful; he could feel it even before the balls clicked, though the child’s cries were there to confirm it once more, just in case it didn’t get through all the way. Then the hulking snag machine was strapped over Wes’s shoulder and they were running to their bikes. No one, of course, tried to stop them. No one really even noticed. Because everyone was equal in the Orre Region. Everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!


	2. Quit While You're Ahead

The stretch of barren land which served as a makeshift and boundless road was nothing foreign, though its glare on Wes was hard and unwavering. Even the gentle prodding of his companions could evoke nothing but passive responses. His heart wasn’t in it. No, that wasn’t the word. Heart was the last thing a person would accuse him of possessing, let alone think it odd that he should lack a thing like it. But the mischief was gone—flushed out of him, as if his lightly toasted skin were suddenly drained to a sickly froth.

When the cats could get him to look at them, he could feel the words in their dark eyes. They told him he was blameless. They swore it was alright. He knew it from the softness in the narrowed red; the understanding in the deep amethyst. They were correct, naturally, and Wes knew it, but the chance at embracing the hatred of the self was too good to pass up. The prospect of directing the coldness inwardly could save him from directing it somewhere far less desirable, perhaps at the cost of their current state of living.

His eyes responded to the tenderness but his mouth moved normally. “Not too much further,” he observed.

The brothers replied with small yowls, still tentative but quite obviously relieved to rest and, they certainly hoped, for their master to rest as well. It was no surprise that Trapper’s sharp mind could sense any sort of mental imbalance, and Hunter was surely not a stranger to the dark workings of emotion. Either way, they knew their master perhaps better than he cared to know himself, and it didn’t take a power of any kind to read the tension. A glance would easily suffice.

“Yeah yeah, I know you greedy lot just want your grub,” he joked. His Pokémon squirmed at the mention of food and the corners of his mouth broke the somber expression his face had been skillfully maintaining up until this point. He nearly smiled.

The sun was lying low in its own shady corner by the time the three of them reached HQ, stomachs ready to be filled and heads eager to be cleared. The pathetic brown fur ball still writhed obnoxiously about in the back of Wes’s thoughts and had no apparent intent in vacating the premise. It made him scowl at the air in front of him as he walked.

The boys were his ever faithful horizontal lookouts as usual, covering with their keen eyes whatever air he missed. The mental glowers they matched to his physical one stated bluntly that if it made Wes angry, it made them angry. It was incredibly comforting.

No passing peons dared try and interact with Wes, who strode now up a flight of remarkably dusty stairs with the blankest of expressions adorning his face, gloved hands thrust deeply in his overcoat pockets. He was known well for a lot of things, some not as flattering as others. He was either too cold to the rest of the team or too forgiving to their blooded tools of war. He was arrogant, stubborn, aloof, envied, wanted, hated…everything. Gonzap’s favorite, some scornfully deduced. The guy who hung around with the admins and wasn’t required to dress in uniform. Sometimes it made him laugh inwardly, others it made him smirk outwardly, but usually he just didn’t react to it. Best to let them think what they would. He didn’t need to be figured out and some of the stories they whispered would spread around the base like wildfire, which could be admittedly amusing—Wes had no idea he’d slept with half the female staff prior to hearing some nurse’s fantastical drabble on the matter.

After several long hallways and another staircase that was more irritating than it logically should have been, Wes and his Pokémon at last greeted the double doors of the cafeteria, their stomachs groaning longingly. Upon entry, they merged quickly with the midsized group of identically red-clad peons that crowded around the counter, shoving and shouting impatient orders at the cook. A cheap plastic tray eventually made its way into Wes’s hands, carrying a plate of maybe beef and a couple fried Slowpoke tails, as well as two smaller plates of something raw for the scamps.

Wakin caught Wes’s eye from across the room and waved him over expectantly. He obliged, as per the norm, and wove through the mass of hungry grunts with the end goal of a table surrounded by the aforementioned admin, along with Biden and the third higher-up by the name of Agrev. He claimed the empty chair that waited for him and kicked aside the bag that encroached on his floor space. His boys needed room to eat, after all.

“Put those things away, will you?” Biden complained around a mouthful of food, wrinkling his nose at the fox Pokémon that trailed their master, who was now slinging the heavy snag machine over the cracked back of his chair.

No response, meaning the request was effectively denied. Wes grabbed up the twin plates and placed them on the floor beside him. “Eat up scoundrels,” he barked, and they tore into it like a couple of wild dogs, Hunter grasping massive chunks with a gaping lion’s mouth and Trapper taking short, speedy bites, effectively shredding the poor piece of carcass.

They knew the rough tones Wes used with them were forged from affection, but the men at the table discarded it as the sort of abject harshness they used with their own Pokémon, which was fine. Far be it from him to tell them otherwise. Plus, it’d do far from harm to his reputation if everyone thought him a hard ass when it came to Pokémon in addition to humans.

Someone, he could only assume, must have seen him interacting with the brothers in what he’d thought to be private, because some nasty little roomer had floated around for some time that he was softer on them…that he cared. If word of that detail got to Gonzap, he’d have a red vest slapped on his back and a razor taken to his scalp. Hell, he might be scrapped from the team and disposed of on the spot.

Wes held one of the fried appendages to his nose, breathing in the scent of it before taking a large bite. The inside was slimy; not cooked nearly as well as it should’ve been, and the breading was loosely fixed to the flesh, allowing sections to tumble down onto the plate at the slightest hint of contact. Still, the first bit of food since morning was nothing to scoff at. As far as he was concerned, it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

“This ain’t even real Miltank,” Agrev pouted, scooping up another chunk of the beefy substance and plopping it onto his tongue. He made a point of chewing it thoughtfully, visibly mulling over the quandary of a decade. “Must be fake. Or old.”

“Of course it’s old.” Wakin smirked. “Think they got farms around here? Or have you forgotten where we’re at?”

“Besides,” interjected Biden, “it’s nothing different from what we usually get. Thicken your hide, friggin’ puss.”

“Tastes worse,” Agrev insisted, closing the door to further discussion. Wes recalled a lot of junk far less appealing, some literally just that, all things he’d had the pleasure of swallowing. Greed was an easy thing to come by when a roof hung securely over a person’s head, even in Orre. Greed often killed out here. The fat fool in that crappy old shack was currently finding that gem of wisdom out for himself.

“Earth to Wes.” An invasive finger tapped at his shoulder, which He brushed off like an insect. Wakin withdrew his hand and gave him a sidelong glance, probing his expression as if he were some strange exhibit. Said exhibit felt the need to deliver an especially hard blow to the spectator’s face, an urge which he kept secret.

“What?”

“Come on. I know you’re a man of few words, but this is ridiculous. You haven’t said a damned thing since you sat down.”

“Had to deal with a whole lotta stupid today,” Wes said as he returned his gaze to the plate which had been subconsciously emptied in the time he’d been spacing out. No wonder, his mouth had been occupied with more important things than talking. The matters of the admins didn’t often concern him much. Idle chat wasn’t his forte nor was it a virtue. A distraction, no doubt, but from what? The food? It wasn’t worth the effort.

“Poor baby,” Wakin teased, as if they were the chummiest of chums. Wes wanted to grimace. He almost did. Agrev and Biden laughed hardily, and a chuckle bubbled artificially in the blond rogue’s throat.

“How about that hall?” Biden offered proudly. “Not many, but damn that Eevee was a rare catch. That should raise your spirits at the very least.”

“The thing didn’t put up much of a fight.” The mask which had been falling like fried breadcrumbs rebuilt itself in record time. Wes spoke as a Snagem prodigy—sharp, rough for the sake of being as such, dedicated. The organization’s pet was an extension of the machine he operated. “It won’t be of much use if it doesn’t shape up.”

“Ha! You didn’t see the battle,” Agrev reminded him. “It tried real hard, but come on. It didn’t stand a chance against those new Pokémon the boss gave us.” Sharp looks from Wakin and Biden cut across the table, which could only mean that Wes just heard something he wasn’t supposed to.

“New ones, eh?” he replied smoothly. “Boss man’s picking some serious favorites.”

“Says Gonzap’s lapdog,” Agrev said bitterly. Wes couldn’t quite discern whether or not he was feigning it, but they all laughed in the assumption that the jab was in jest, and so that became the reality of it.

The rogue stood then, thankful for the parting of his back and the pronounced vertical crack in the chair’s hard plastic backing. It certainly hadn’t done anything to help his mood. “Gonna vedge,” he declared to the admins, who took the statement with grace and didn’t bother to poke any further into his business, thankfully. He could deal with the morning interrogation they’d surely begin plotting once his back was to the other side of the doors, but he wouldn’t have heard a word of it tonight. Perhaps they sensed that.

It was a long tread down to the basement and then to Wes’s room: two floors down, five floors up, with the always inconveniently placed staircases and the snag machine weighing on his shoulders for the first portion of the trip, no less. But the air was still, save the slapping of boot and paw against tile, and the Snagem prodigy thought they’d make it without a hitch until he spotted a figure leaning against the frame to his sanctuary.

“Any particular reason you’re lounging on my door?”

The lowly peon looked up at him dumbly, his bare head taking on a slight sheen from the dim lights set into the ceiling. It was another lookalike member, of course, with the same red vest falling to his hips and the same nondescript gray and black everything else: pants, undershirt, gloves… It all blended together with itself. How people were able to tell one man from another Wes had no idea. This guy was another face among the faceless, though his eyes may have been green. Finally, the grunt declared flatly, “Master Gonzap requests that you join him for breakfast in the morning.”

This bit of news took Wes aback a good deal. Since when did the boss invite anyone to anything? Granted, the word for it was order rather than invitation, but still, breakfast? There was most definitely a secretive heir about the whole thing.

“Where and when?” Wes’s tone was all business now, as if accepting one of the more…underground jobs he’d had to do, so to speak.

“Nine, in his office.”

“Tell him I’ll be there.”

“He expects nothing less,” the guy said, his face an odd mixing bowl of sourness and seriousness, a dash of envy sprinkled in for a bit of spice. Without another word, the peon finally stepped aside, allowing Wes and a tired pair of Pokémon into their domain.

A mutually understood sense of relief fell over the room as the sweet sound of a shut door signaled their isolation from the outside world. A sigh finally passed the young rogue’s lips, and his body flung itself onto the small cot which lay in the room’s center. He beckoned for his companions to join him, which they did without hesitation.

Trapper was the first to make contact with his trainer, a normal thing that would seem strange to anyone who wasn’t Wes. Where most psychic types were known for an extraordinary sense of calm, Wes’s Espeon was as energetic as they come. The mind of a psychic type was in constant motion, going in every direction at once, and he sought constant physical stimulation to release some of that mental energy. Either that or he was just a vicious little bastard.

Hunter, on the other hand, was still as a shadow unless he needed to move, though his eyes were almost always performing surveillance. This wasn’t counting playtime, of course, to which he devoted his whole being.

They were certainly a strange pair, but somehow they complimented their trainer perfectly in every aspect. They were a distant sort with anyone but him and their methods of play were rough, much like his own. Now, however, they did little but curl themselves on top of him, Hunter on his lap and Trapper on his chest.

Wes dragged his fingers idly through their fur, speaking in a voice hushed by exhaustion and the worry that someone might hear him. “Wonder what the boss wants,” he whispered, and the boys raised their heads simultaneously to look at him.

Their eyes spelled out the answer: they had no idea, and they wished they did, but they were just glad to be away from the watchful eye of the prying public. Wes couldn’t blame them. Everyone aside from him looked at them like they shouldn’t be allowed to freely roam the halls of the Snagem hideout, as it was an oddity for any Pokémon other than the boss’s Skarmory to be out of its ball. He paid no mind to the onlookers, though, unless it directly affected his position within the syndicate. Defensiveness on his part was a rarity.

“We’re doing alright, ain’t we?” the rogue asked his companions suddenly as his hands halted in place. “Us three, I mean. We got a roof, and food, and a little dough. We got a base to stop at, and a good supply of items, and a job…” The foxes looked up at him confusedly. “You’re right, I’m rambling.” A growl from Trapper rumbled over Wes’s chest.

You’re thinking something over. Tell us what’s the matter.

The unspoken words, as always, were unmistakable. He thought for a moment before relenting a sigh. “Nothing gets by you. I guess…” He grunted in frustration as he attempted to piece his words into a comprehensible explanation. “I guess I don’t really know what I want out of this. This big group of people hasn’t really ever been our style, has it? I mean, I know you never really got to experience that. Not really… but being on the road, just taking odd jobs…” Two pairs of eyes pierced threw his defenses with the same keen observation. He’d have praised them on their perceptiveness had he not been the object of their scrutiny.

That Eevee really screwed you up, didn’t it?

“Dammit, I don’t know,” he groaned into the hands that now embraced his face. “Have you ever thought about what he does with all those goddamn Pokémon?” They looked at him uncertainly under the assumption that the question was a rhetorical one. “Listen, I don’t wanna be lorded over by some pompous shit like him. I don’t want him to get any more of them into his greedy hands, because there’s a lot of crap you can do with a ton of Pokémon if you really want to. What about when he decides he doesn’t want to share the glory of whatever empire he’s trying to make himself, and he kicks us into the dirt? Ain’t you ever heard that saying about quitting while you’re ahead?”

Hunter and Trapper looked into his troubled gaze, then, and willed him to get some rest. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath through his nose.

“Always lookin’ out for me,” he said tiredly, “even though that’s my damn job. Aren’t I just the best damned master you could ever want?” They lay there in a heavy silence for a while, until the heaviness of Wes’s eyelids overtook it, and finally, they slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to do my best to update every week. Reviews are of course always appreciated!


	3. Dreams & Memories: Part I. First Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize the whole updating every week thing flopped immediately, so to be safe I'll just say that I'll update as frequently as I can without rushing and therefore killing the story's quality.  
> Now then, let's get on with it! I'm really happy with this chapter, and I hope you are too ^_^

It was too easy. For once, some swanky group of one sort or another left its headquarters wide open. Sure it looked shady as hell, but the payoff would be massive, the boy was sure of it. This wasn’t some ordinary shack with the usual failure’s slim pickens. No, this was somewhere important, with multiple stories and minimal wear on the exterior.

He’d been frequenting this place for months now, trudging down into the recesses of the canyon that pocketed his gold mine whenever he could and waiting for an opening. Each time the place was locked up, but not today. Today when he tested the locks, he found that the master lock was in place, but someone had forgotten to secure the deadbolt.

The fair-haired boy hardly had time to grin as he went to work. He had only one bobby pin left in his stash, but there was no time to register the inconvenience. He quickly split the pin in half and pulled at the rubber with his teeth until the ends were bare. One half was jammed and bent; the other put to the anxiety-inducing process of raking the tumblers. The rhythm with which he pushed and jostled and turned was second nature, and eventually, his victory was recognized with the sound of a soft click. He was in.

For something that lay out in the middle of the desert, the size of the building he stepped foot in appeared to him just short of the Colosseum in Phenac City of all things. The ceiling loomed high above him like a hand ready to strike the top of his head for trespassing and it was intimidating to say the least, though the promise of reward-reaping was enough to drive his legs forward, one after another. It was all he knew how to do at this point.

The boy pulled the tattered shoes off his feet and shoved them into his bag, going instead on the rubbery soles of his socks which he’d crafted, albeit a little sloppily, for the extra grip in the case he might need to flee in dangerous situations like this one. By the standards he was used to, the place was kept pretty clean, so much so that he felt like a rat the way he skittered silently down the hall in search of buried treasure. Few wooden doors lined the corridor walls, and the boy took great care in peering ever so cautiously through the very edge of each window. His heart skipped several beats when he heard a rustling in the first room he encountered, but he managed to avoid the notice of whatever it was by dropping to his hands and knees and crawling past like vermin. Maybe he was overdoing it, but you could never be too careful when thieving from thieves themselves. At least he guessed that’s what they were.

Despite the premeditated goal of his breaking and entering, nothing could have prepared the boy for the feeling of euphoria which overcame him when the door to an empty room swung freely on its hinges upon the turning of the doorknob. Then, quiet as a Persian on the prowl, he slunk inside and shut the door behind him, peering around at his newly discovered trove.

It was a compact space, with parallel long tables by either wall and a desktop computer on each. Papers were filed semi-neatly in stacks across the remaining space of one tabletop, and the other’s remainder was empty aside from an abandoned P*DA. The boy examined the digital assistant first, but it was protected by a password and he wasn’t one for number-crunching or hacking. The computers were locked up as well, but you couldn’t put a password on a piece of paper. He made quick work of the inviting words that presented themselves across each page, thankful he was one of the street kids that could actually read and write.

Most of the contents didn’t concern him. There was something or other about an admin and a something or other about employee number something, but it was all business mumbo jumbo to him. What really interested him was a map he found tucked away inside a manila folder. Particularly, a certain landmark caught his eye. ‘Storage,’ it read, and there was a note scribbled underneath it. Deciphering the chicken scratch, the boy rogue discovered that an incoming shipment of ‘Snag Machines’ was supposed to be allotted to several workers. But what the hell was a Snag Machine?

More importantly, could he get his hands on one?

Whatever it was, it seemed like it’d go for a good price, so the boy did a thrice over of the route he’d need to take before putting the map back in its original place. As quickly and carefully as he’d come in, the boy ducked out the door and scampered down the corridor, accessing both the trail in his head and the trail before his eyes in equal measure. He was not about to screw up an opportunity to afford a shack for himself. Though he wasn’t one to complain very much, the paranoia he felt before sleep each night ever since the incident a few months back was growing tiresome, in both the literal and figurative senses.

He had been wrapped in a deep slumber, surrounded on three of four sides by a tall formation of rocks that were as worn by the wind as he by his day’s trek. In light of this, and given the fact that he was viewed as a child, the boy had thought himself secured from those mangy adults who were just like him.

The stench of the alcohol-stained breath which woke him that night was still fresh in his mind even now. It certainly said much of the encounter’s impact on the boy who always took care to maintain a hardened exterior. That heat assaulting his face, those hands rifling through his pockets… The young rogue who usually gave off an air of maturity had shrunk to his real size and quivered helplessly while the little change he had was taken away.

Looking back, the kid thought it quite telling of the state of things that a grown man would steal from him. He, who slept flat on his back and closed his eyelids to the stars, was in the position to be robbed by this man who had the audacity to buy himself a drink before coming to violate his way of life. And all the stranger had to say for himself was ‘Shhh, don’t scream, kid. I’m sure you know what it’s like to starve, hmmm? Help a brother out.’

Is that what family was about? Benefit of the self? Prying open closed palms even if the fingers broke as a result? Using and taking and leaving when there was nothing left to suck out of them? Sure, they were brothers alright.

With these stakes in mind, the youth descended the first staircase on the road to safety. The irony of the situation, he realized smartly, was the growing sprout of danger inside his belly called fear. Why was it that the only way he could achieve stability was by throwing himself into the line of fire? It might’ve seemed twisted to his “brother,” who would choose to target a child in situations of so called ‘desperation,’ but to the boy, it could almost be considered honorable. This may have been what kept him straight-faced in spite of the world’s cruelties.

Then again, perhaps he was just foolish.

Another corner was rounded and another staircase found. The distance between him and his target was shrinking by the second. The young rogue wasn’t sure he was ready to admit to himself how much he was enjoying the hunt despite himself. His energy spiked wonderfully from the anticipation and the fear each time he gazed upon a new doorway in delightful disquiet, wondering if this would be the one that would swing open and start a fight with him. This was what truly made the blood sing through his body. Not the idea of living comfortably in the peaceful villages blessed with wealth to swim in. Not an imaginary pair of arms pulling him into a familial embrace. It was the possibility that he might be caught—that by way of his own wits, he wouldn’t—that truly made him feel alive.

Despite this eagerness, the boy didn’t entirely know what to do with himself once he stood before the entrance to the room which had been marked as storage on the map. ‘Go on, just try and open this door,’ it seemed to say. ‘Open this door and trigger the alarm that’s sure to be set.’ But as he took the handle into his hand and quietly nudged the door forward, nothing happened. It simply creaked open with a slight groan but nothing noticeable enough to wake the dormant building. Could it really be as easy as this? Were these people truly cocky enough to leave themselves so susceptible to thievery?

It was too fantastic a trick to be overlooked. Where was the catch? The young thief’s keen tawny eyes surveyed the floor and walls closely for the trap he was certain would be laid for intruders such as him. But it wasn’t there. No trip wires or cameras or motion sensors anywhere. Sure it was dark, but even so, he was intimately familiar with these security precautions and he was sure they weren’t present. Then what…

Then he saw it.

Just before he lifted his foot, a glint of something metallic caught his attention. Perched atop one massive crate in the center of the storage heap was a magnificent fowl made entirely of steel. It appeared at first as if it was cocking its head to look at him, but a more fixated look revealed that its neck was lulled almost right to its shoulder blade.

It’s asleep.

The child realized this with relief and smiled at the creature. How peaceful it looked in stark contrast to the tenseness he was feeling. He had seen Pokémon before, but he had never been this close to one that wasn’t exuding aggression in the heat of battle. Under a trainer’s command was the only state a person could witness the creatures, if they were lucky, as the barrenness and brokenness of Orre dropped the wild population to an absolute zero.

The boy’s instincts should logically have admonished him for what he did next. However, while locked in the vicinity of this powerful being, a magnetic spell overtook his body and drew him forward. He wasn’t sure what he planned to do once he reached the Pokémon. He supposed he just wanted to touch it—to feel, under this spell of childish wonder, the life that pulsed beneath the bird’s natural armor. So he advanced, and he reached, and he touched.

And nothing happened. Its lashes drew further from the tops of its sharply angled cheeks, and yet its head did not leave its shoulder. It merely watched the dumbstruck boy with two half-lidded, glimmering pupils. When the child saw that look, a strange sort of warmth rose up the length of his torso. It didn’t make much sense to him, but the gentle hand he rested beside the creature suggested that he accepted the sensation regardless. The only thing that kept him from smiling at the bird was the undeniable respect he felt for it. This beautiful specimen’s allowance for him to gaze upon it humbled the young rogue. Venturing to share an expression would just be greedy.

“May I speak to you?” The words felt stiff coming from the juvenile intruder. He couldn’t call to mind the last instance where he was inclined to ask for anything politely.

The bird shrugged its shining wings open, as if inviting him to go ahead. Overlapping feathers ruffled quietly with the motion. It sounded like rattling tinfoil.

Some god must have blessed him. Not only with this encounter, but with the calm he was experiencing in the Pokémon’s presence as well. And moreover with the absence of a stutter in his speech when he asked simply, “Where did you grow up?”

Soft caws formulated a response to the question and the kid felt almost saddened by his inability to comprehend. Still, even when presented with the confusion the blond was sure he wore like bright face paint, it went on chattering its story.

Suddenly and without warning, it started to make sense. It wasn’t as if the Pokémon were speaking in any human language, but rather a universal method of communication, by way of the invisible wave of mental intent. The boy just knew. From the expressions in its eyes, the small inflections of its wordless voice, the set of its posture, and something else, it conveyed its thoughts with the brevity of an animal with human intelligence.

The boy couldn’t imagine the transition between soaring freely through the skies over Fallarbor Town and being confined to a place like this. Even if the bird were supposedly treated as a king, where would it stretch its wings in a canyon? Would the dampness in the earth cause its feathers to rust? It was clear that the creature felt both sweetly and bitterly toward its condition. Life was certainly easier than it once had been. All the resources it required were supplied regularly and mostly without fail. Yet still, the food it received was more akin to fuel—not to be tasted and appreciated, but to keep its processes from shutting down.

“I think I get it,” the young thief realized aloud. “You feel like a tool, don’t you?”

What shattered the memory was the image of the wing reaching toward him, something unique to the recreation rather than in recollection of actual past events. The dream dissolved into the mist of fresh wakefulness, and Wes surfaced to the pressure of a purple paw against his shoulder.

“Mornin’ buddy,” Wes drawled sleepily.

Waves of energy were exuded from the Espeon and channeled into his trainer. Curiosity, confusion, care, restlessness… Wes knew Trapper too well to shrug it off, and he also knew that look all too well.

“You saw my dream, didn’t you?”

A small nod.

“And you’re worried.”

Another.

Wes’s hand traveled the length of Trapper’s spine in an act of reassurance. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “Just stuck in the past for a little while. You know how my head works. But y‘know what?”

Trapper looked quizzically at him, as if to reply in a rather young manor, “What?”

“I’m feelin’ a little better already.”

The psychic looked pleased with himself before hopping off the cot and trotting over to the window, where he then pushed aside the provisional blinds to reveal a steady stream of light. He tilted his head back blissfully as if to drink in the dawn. Beside him, a controlled shadow stood watching the center of the room, and Wes realized why his emotions had been leveled so quickly.

His companions had perfected the art of fixing their trainer’s brokenness. They, more than anyone or anything, made him feel safety. It was something he had never experienced growing up in the scrublands. The three of them were in perfect sync, and the only thing that mattered was keeping the pack intact. Even the past… even Wes’s freedom paled in comparison to that.

He had to preserve it. He had to take hold of his duties with both hands. He had to give up his dream of being just some punk again. He had to drag himself out of bed and meet with his boss.

So he sat up and reached for the pair of Pokéballs beside his bed.


	4. A Word Is Worth 0.001 Pictures

The atmosphere of the hallway around the advancing Wes hung in still anticipation for something he knew would never come but didn’t have the heart to admit. The further he walked, the more it waited. And waited. And waited… But he was quite alone, and the identical twin spheres that buried themselves deep in his coat pockets waited with that same accusing quietness. Just like the walls and the floor, the spheres meant nothing by it, but he regardless felt them like two staring eyes—one watching his thoughts and the other his unsteady heart.

How many staircases had he descended? One? Two? He probably wouldn’t have been able to remember how many floors he’d passed over if the building’s internal structure hadn’t been etched into him over the years. It was all a dull blur of unimportant things—shut doors and glowing ceilings and loose tiles which no one cared enough to tighten or replace—without any sort of focal point for Wes’s eyes to settle on. So he just glazed over the whole picture with a sort of lazy frigidness and let it slide beneath his feet until he was given something to look at.

That something was a door, looming up in front of him, jumping from the grayness with a display of rare color. Not bright, but eye-catching, because it was something. The thing setting it apart was a likeness of the boss hanging at eyelevel, with the spot right between its spindly eyebrows skewered through by a jutting thumbtack. It wouldn’t have been a portrait (Who would have painted one?), but it didn’t look like a photo either. Wes thought if he were to study it closely enough, he’d be able to see thousands of little pixels building up the groomed curl of his mustache. The image was dark, but light against the grayness, and it was blown to even more unnecessary proportions than Gonzap himself.

Wes braced himself before making impact on the door. The two decisive knocks were perfectly restrained, not echoing too harshly across the hall and still audible enough, and there were not three (which would sound like a question) or one (which would imply disrespectful curtness), but the ideal number of two. His majesty could be heard grumbling to himself on the other side before asking who the hell it was.

“It’s Wes, sir.”

Ping, a bright light illuminated Gonzap’s irritated monotone with a suddenness that made the prodigy feel discomforted. “Aha, Wes, why didn’t you say so? Come on in!” Wes decided to keep the observation that he did, in fact, say so at his earliest opportunity to himself.

He pulled at the doorknob and watched as the bloated caricature magnified and disappeared just as quickly behind the other side of the wood. His attention was soon after drawn to his commander’s bent-over and grinning figure and then to the bottle in his hand, and sequentially the other glass pillars that rose from his empirical desk. They were mostly filled, Wes noticed gladly. A staggeringly drunk boss was much more tedious to discuss matters with than a slightly tipsy one. He wondered in bemusement if this was Gonzap’s idea of “breakfast” but decided not to ask.

“C’mon, sit down. Have a drink,” the bald man implored him hardily with a jerk of his chin toward the chair which had been set across from him. Wes took it as instructed. He had to push himself back slightly to prevent the solid base of the desk from pressing against his legs. He didn’t make a habit of drinking in the morning, but under the strong impression that Gonzap would be petulant with him for declining, he grabbed a bottle with both hands and turned it to inspect the label. His mouth fell open for the first time in years.

“Brandy?”

“Indeed,” the man declared like a king. Wes continued gaping at him until Gonzap began to howl with laughter, which caused Wes’s mouth to harden into a thin line.

Is he messing with me?

Gonzap’s wailing ceased when he came to the realization that all parties didn’t get the joke. “No boy, it isn’t fake. It’s all very real, and all ours. Don’t look so stiff. Really, drink already.”

Wes ignored the request, his mind still whirling in perplexity. “But where…did you get this?” he asked, and he was unsure if he should be grinning like a madman or slitting his eyes in suspicion. “How?”

“Ah, it’s all because of us, Wes. You and me. We made all this-“ he made a sweeping gesture at the sea of alcohol between them “-happen. And this is just the beginning!” His face shone with reverence toward the clear brown liquid. “We’re gonna be rich, Wes, filthy rich!”

“Slow down boss,” the younger man chuckled. “I’m not getting any of this. Why are we gonna be doin’ a doggy paddle through all this Poké again? What did we do?”

“Quit playing with that thing and just drink already. It’s annoying.” The excitement Master Gonzap’s promise of wealth stoked within him was seeping out through his fingers’ subliminal toying with the bottle in their grasp. He apologized, though his digits kept up a light thrumming.

“Anyway, where’s this all coming from?”

“Have you ever heard of a company called Cipher?” There was that name again. Wes had, indeed, come across the name during his past excavations of Team Snagem’s background dealings. So then they were involved with the snag machines after all. He had thought it pretty unbelievable that a dirt group like Snagem could get ahold of something so apparently technologically advanced without any engineers in their ranks.

“Maybe in passing?” he said with mock uncertainty.

“They’re the whole reason behind our success,” explained Gonzap, tilting the open pitcher to the mouth he’d neglected to close after speaking, then continuing without pause. “They built the snag machines. Arceus knows why, but that’s where we got ‘em from. The point is…well, forget about Cipher for now. Point is we’re about to make a whole shit load of money… Dammit Wes, you’re not gonna drink any of that drink I went out of my way to get you? Aren’t you psyched at all? I think,” he went on rambling, “that a man’s respect for a fellow man is his willingness to drink with him. So then, what the hell are you trying to tell me?”

Gonzap was pompous. Even in charity, the man was incorrigible. But still…the picture of a charitable boss was something worth drinking to. “Alright, alright, you win. I’ll drink to money.”

He drank, and the almighty hand of the substance slammed a raging fire down his throat. His skin, his bones, and his liver all caught and spread the internal forest fire onward, swirling it in every direction at once and filling Wes with glory. The smoke billowed upward in a hoarse, wistful sigh that tasted of unbearable sweetness.

Exhilarating.

Gonzap broke into a wide grin at his underling’s strong reaction to the beverage. “And to success!”

They both indulged themselves in the name of success.

“And this shit region!” It was Wes’s turn to invite the alcohol-induced shivers. Glass clashed with glass as the young man and his boss toasted one another before tipping their heads back. The snagger’s body was burning furiously and he was filled with passion.

“And…for your official promotion to the title of Team Snagem admin!”

Their bottles made a B line for each other again and struck.

Wes felt as content as he ever could. The top rung of a latter he didn’t realize he wanted to climb was within his sights. He was going up, up, up into the sky, soaring like a silver bird with a crown of riches bestowed upon his head. A picture with nothing, absolutely nothing at all wrong with it.

“Judging by that…look on your face…I’m guessing you don’t object?” Gonzap was beaming at him and whatever “look” he was seeing.

Then he realized-

What Gonzap meant.

Even though he was delighted… Even though he was captured by excitement…

He wasn’t smiling.

What did his boss see, then?

If not a smile, what divulged his elation?

“It’s in your eyes, boy,” as if he read Wes’s thoughts, Gonzap explained. “There’s ruthless hunger in them. Hunger for power. Let me ask you something. How would you like to be in a higher position than even the other three admins?”

He visibly enjoyed the “look” he received this time from his inferior.

“You’re certainly more talented than them. Why shouldn’t you be able to boss them around a little? Have an office of your own, maybe? Have a drink like this once in a while?”

Wes slid his tongue along his lips to saver the brandy residue, or maybe he was savoring the delicious ideas being planted in his brain.

“I think I might take you up on that.”

“I knew you would.” Gonzap showed all his teeth to him. “But…there’s something those three have right now that you don’t. It’s the only thing that’s getting in the way of your promotion.”

“What the hell do they have that I don’t?”

Gonzap laughed lightly. “Relax. It’s not something you can’t easily get. See, they’ve got powerful Pokémon with them.”

Wes tsked. “You don’t think mine could easily wipe the floor with theirs?”

“These are different than your everyday run-of-the-mill Pokémon. They’re absolute fighting machines. Stronger than any you’ve ever seen before.” Gonzap pushed his chair back and got to his feet a bit clumsily, though still exuding authority with his gait. “Get up. I’m going to show you something spectacular.”

Reluctant even now to show vulnerability, Wes’s hand pushed down on the desk as his body rose, keeping him steady as a rock. He allowed himself a few seconds to adjust to verticality, then followed his boss from the room. Gonzap kept up meaningless chatter, but Wes was naturally uninterested and tuned it all out with the buzz which turned each forward step into a forward glide. A shortage of time and resources for oneself made it easy to forget the feeling of surrendering to a strong drink.

The prodigy stopped when his leader stopped. They entered the room with anticipation palpable on each of them. Gonzap was all a puddle of smiles. Wes was all a river of desires to see enormous things.

There was a sound–a terrible sound—like nails scraping across a chalkboard. Not fingernails but the nails hammered into a structure to force it to comply with a desired image.

The smile never left Gonzap’s face. Even though he saw what Wes saw, he looked on with a proud grin.

A grimace pierced the drunken haze, and Wes saw, with awful clarity, the brilliant bird he’d met so profoundly as a boy, shackled and screaming brutally, locked in a stiflingly small prison. A pair of once calm and inconceivably intelligent eyes glared with wild and monstrous agony.

“See what I mean?! It’s way more powerful than regular Pokémon!” Gonzap had to shout over the earsplitting cries erupting over and over through the thick bars of the cage. “This is the real potential of Team Snagem! Isn’t it great?!” He looked at Wes with a stare lustful for all the riches in the world. The rogue’s guts churned.

It wasn’t possible. There was no way in hell he could say anything while the fowl’s muscles were straining like that as it tried to move its wings. He thought they should break. The fact that they didn’t attested to its strength. White hot anger and pitch black sadness flew out in the creature’s stead and struck Wes’s chest painfully. In a few words, he’d say it was ferociously crying.

“Oh, I get it!” Gonzap realized when he saw Wes’s current “look.” “Yeah, the noise is pretty annoying! How about we discuss the details in the hall!”

Wes was more than happy to oblige.

The two men stepped out of the deafening room. Gonzap slammed the door behind them and picked up the conversation as if nothing disturbing had transpired in there. “That Scarmory you saw there is an example of the powerful Pokémon I’m talking about. That…is what I’m going to help you achieve. That level of power is exactly what you’re yearning for, isn’t it?”

Wes answered without hesitation. “Yeah, that’s exactly it.”

“That’s the result of research and experimentation. We happen to have connections to some really smart people. I don’t know the details of what goes on, but damn, it must be pretty bad.” He chuckled to Wes confidentially. “Either way, they battle like they’ll die if they don’t. They’ll try and kill any Pokémon or person who even so much as looks at them. That’s the kind of destructive power we have access to. And I’m letting you in on it.” A dreamy smile passed over Gonzap’s face. “I can only imagine how powerful an Umbreon and Espeon would be.”

A hand caught at Wes’s arm before his head was able to make contact with the floor.

“Whoa, Wes! Are you alright there?” The earth dipped and swayed underneath him as Gonzap steadied him. Waves of nausea lapped, for lack of a better word, nauseatingly at him. There was no other word that he could make sense of. He was so utterly nauseous from the nauseating nausea, and Gonzap only made it worse, with his nauseating words and that nauseating smile that just made Wes feel…so…

A horrible gagging sound pushed its way from Wes’s throat.

Eyes widening, Gonzap tightened the grip he had on the unhealthily flushed Wes’s arm and practically dragged him toward the staircase they’d used not too long ago. “Shit, Wes. I didn’t think you’d be this much of a lightweight… Okay, here’s the stairs. Can you walk? C’mon, your room’s pretty close.”

Humiliated, Wes gathered what pride he had left and put it to the task of getting himself standing on his own.

Finally, “I’m fine… You can let go.”

“Are you-“

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Gonzap let go, and Wes pressed his right hand on the wall to keep himself from collapsing pathetically. He didn’t turn to acknowledge Gonzap again. Only the path to his room was significant to him. Some nonsense about coming in when he was sobered up and dropping off his Pokémon echoed off the ceiling, but it was all blurry and he wasn’t even sure if he’d heard right. He was sure that he didn’t care, though.

Somehow, Wes managed to find himself facing his door, and, stumbling, he let himself in. Now that Gonzap was nothing but a distant entity, he fished desperately in his pockets and made a mad grab for the luxury balls stashed there. His index fingers jammed down on the buttons that would liberate an Umbreon and an Espeon.

The events between that moment and the moment where he was retching in his bathroom were lost in time. Disgust burned like brandy in the pit of his stomach. Disgust for Gonzap, for what was done to that Scarmory…for what that man planned to do with his friends.

He choked.

Disgust for the crown he’d imagined on his head. Disgust toward himself for that hunger Gonzap saw in his eyes.

Anguished cries rang distantly from a pair of worried Pokémon…worried for him, when they should have been worried for themselves.

Those eyes on that bird weren’t just angry. They were so, so very sad. So horribly, grotesquely tortured. And they wanted to do that to his friends.

He laughed bitterly into the next wave of violent retching.

Ever bound by responsibility, he shakily wiped his mouth before losing consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It broke my heart to write Wes like this :(


	5. Dreams & Memories: Part II. An Adult Is Someone Who…

“So, kid, do you know what this is?”

“Pop, when are you gonna stop callin’ me kid?”

“The day you stop being one. Now answer my question.”

“Course, it’s alcohol. You drink that stuff all the time. Couldn’t tell ya the brand or nothin’.”

“It’s anything, son. Anything.”

“Whatever Pop. What about the drink?”

“Did you know there was a time when this stuff was sold in bottles made of glass?”

“Glass? You gotta be shittin’ me.”

“Wesley.”

“Ha, you didn’t call me kid. I guess all it takes to be an adult is a couple bad words, don’t it?”

“That’s not true. An adult is someone who…”

“Drinks that stuff ‘til they can look happy again?”

“How about this? When you’re a real adult, and you learn to live by yourself, I’ll start calling you Wes. Sounds a lot cooler than Wesley, eh?”

“Hmmm, Wes… Yeah, that does sound cool.”

The day after this conversation, the boy told the kids that hung around him to call him Wes, and from then on, they did. That day, the day he became an adult, he used that cheap plastic bottle ‘til he himself could look happy again.

“I think that a man’s respect for his fellow man is his willingness to drink with him. So then, what the hell are you trying to tell me?”

Figure it out for yourself. Isn’t it obvious?

“Aren’t you psyched at all?”

More than I care to admit.

“I didn’t think you’d be this much of a lightweight…”

I’m not. How could I be?

“An adult is someone who…”

A month after he became Wes, he left the area where he’d been living all nine years of his life. The children he knew continued to live like children, while he searched for a crowd more suited for his blossoming maturity. During his travels, when the sun was at its most scorching, one of the rarest breeds of adult offered him a wooden floor for the night. The boy accepted it gladly and hoped to have the chance to pick the woman’s adult brain for something of interest.

“What’s a child like you doing wandering here all by himself?” Her eyes had adopted an innocent softness as if she hadn’t been aware of the world around her at all.

“Nah ma’am, I ain’t a child, I’m an adult.”

She chuckled condescendingly at him. “And what makes you say that?”

“’Cause I don’t live with nobody and I can’t smile ‘less I got some alcohol in me.”

Those soft pupils popped with a level of surprise that amused the kid greatly. “What did you say?”

“You ain’t deaf are ya?”

“N-no, you just caught me off guard. You did say alcohol, didn’t you?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I see. Well to the first point you made, I don’t live alone. I have my son living with me. He’s been out lookin’ for work the past few days, but he should be returning home any day now. Does that mean I’m not an adult? Because I live with someone?”

Wes thought for a good while before asking, “Your parents still around?”

“I’m afraid not. They passed away several years ago.”

“Got it. Thanks lady.”

Four months after he became Wes, he met a girl around his age, maybe a little older, who handed him a flier she herself had made. It had taken a few minutes of staring down at it before the rogue realized the words were just scribbles pretending to be words.

“The hell is this supposed to be?” he’d asked her, perplexed.

“It’s an advertisement, idiot,” she’d informed him with a haughty flare, “for my debut as a famous actress. Since you’re cute, you get to be one of the first to know about it.”

“Cute huh? That sounds like flirting, which means you want something from me. So spill it. What d’ya want?”

Her tiny hands grasped her waist. “I don’t want anything. I just want you to smile at me. It’s so dreary the way your face sticks like that.”

“Got any alcohol?”

“Ew, no, of course not. Why would you even ask that?”

“See, I’m an adult, and an adult don’t have any parents and can’t smile unless they drank some alcohol.”

“What are you talking about? My daddy never drinks that stuff. He says it’s bad for you.”

“Really? And how much d’ya see him smile, hmmm?”

Her sparkling eyes spurred on his growing annoyance. “He smiles all the time. He always tells me I put a smile on his face.” Like father like daughter. The wide toothy grin plastered all over her face made Wes feel slightly ill.

“And you want me to smile like that, that right?”

“Mhm.” She nodded with cheerful innocence.

“What would you give to see me smile?” That warranted a questioning look, to which he responded with a bargain. “Tell ya what. For 50 Poké, I’ll smile just like that. And for 100, I’ll throw in a kiss.”

“People use Poké for food and clothes and stuff. Who ever heard of buying a smile?” Her confusion was tiny compared to the increasing curiosity warping her composure.

“Doesn’t really matter what it is, does it? Something for you; something for me. That’s how it goes.”

“So I can sell people smiles and kisses and stuff?”

The young rogue shook his head. “Probably not for a livin’. Look, I’m not a salesman or nothin’, I just offered something I thought that much money would be worth it to ya. Was I wrong or not?”

She fished in the Skitty-faced pocketbook on her shoulder for a while before pulling out a contrastingly unassuming wallet. “So um,” she held up a crisp bill, waving it like a flag or a tantalizing dog treat, “this is a hundred Poké bill, right?”

“Lucky for you, my pop taught me to read, ‘cause that’s a five hundred. Not that I wouldn’t mind that either.”

“Don’t be greedy,” she spat. The fact that he told her kept maliciousness at bay from the demand.

He pointed definitively at the next one she pulled. “There’s your bill.”

“Fine. Here, take it.” The flick of her delicate wrist was presented with an entitled flare, but Wes knew better. He saw the shy hesitance and the blush that began dusting over her cheeks when he smiled. It was a slow, warm smile, sprinkled with a bit of untapped mischief, as if the realization just now dawned on him that he was charming. That was why she gave him a hundred instead of a fifty. She wanted to feel special to him for a brief moment. She wanted him to transform in front of her, from a no good parentless punk into a prince just like that. This idea gave him a bit of a thrill, and with make-believe warmth in his eyes, he placed a firm grip on her shoulders and kissed her.

It was a playful, chaste kiss, like the fluttering of a Mothim’s wing, but in his budding mind, it was the naughtiest thing he’d ever done. From where did he draw this zest for dabbling in grownup matters? Perhaps it was his quest to prove his manhood which led him to revel in this newfound control. No, it wasn’t control but the opposite—reckless, unrestrainable abandon to the senses. It was nature that was calling for him, begging him to give in to its wiles and live by the wind. Survival, romanticism, and the harshness of reality—these all rotated about the axis of pure instinct.

This, he thought to himself, will be my new reason for living: the feeling of being alive.

And yet, here he was.

Throwing his life down the gutter of egoism, and for what? What did he have but more sinister obligation to take away from it? With greater power inside the pit of Snagem sludge would come nothing but more pressure and reason to harm the values closest to Wes’s heart. He’d mistaken this place for the dumpster where he’d left his dreams. The stench was just as pungent, but there was nothing to be searched for here.

When Wes awoke, clammy with sweat and lying on the icy tile of his bathroom floor, his fingers were grasping at handfuls of air in front of him. He pulled his eyelids back; let the fog of fever recede from his gaze before inspecting the hands which had reached for something untouchable. They were strong, capable hands. Hands that could build things, or dismantle them. He held his friends’ Pokéballs and tossed them with those hands. Piloted strange machines with them and stole from pockets and purses. Used them to handle money, and women, and steering wheels.

The question, now, was what next to do with those hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for how long it's taken me to get this chapter out. This was my first semester in college and it sort of took over my life just a bit. I'll do my best to write more frequently. Hope you enjoyed this look into little Wes's progression. Thank you so much to everyone who's left me such lovely comments. You're all amazing! <3


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